


The Hand that Feeds You

by LovelyLessie



Series: The Family Disappointments [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-30 20:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12116208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: The Lannister siblings go out for drinks to celebrate recent events. (modern AU, part one of The Family Disappointments)





	1. Chapter 1

"Of all of us," Tyrion says, "which do you think is the biggest disappointment?"

He sets his glass down with a bang and tips up his chin to gaze across the table, smirking a little as he folds his hands in front of him.

"The freak?" he continues, pressing the tips of his fingers to his lips. "The girl?" He casts a look towards Cersei, arching an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes. "Or the traitor?" He cocks his head, turning his gaze on Jaime, who half-smiles and raises his glass. 

"Kind of you to welcome me to the ranks," he says dryly, and takes a gulp of his beer. "I was starting to get lonely."

"Oh, please," Cersei mutters darkly, and sips her drink. "You'll always be the golden boy of the family."

"Not if I waste our father's hard-earned money on my college tuition," Jaime replies. "Do you know that's what he said to me when I told him I was accepted to the program?" He takes another drink and sets his cup down. "'I suppose that means I'll spend the next ten years of my life pouring thousands into your education,' he told me."

"Well, then I suppose my congratulations doesn't seem quite so belated," Tyrion replies.

"Thanks," Jaime says. "You're the first who's told me." He glances sideways at Cersei and adds, "Which seems a little strange, if I'm honest."

"Of course I'm glad you got into your program," she says. "But forgive me if I don't take part in your pity party over losing Father's approval."

"It's not a pity party," Jaime argues, frowning. "We're celebrating. I bought you both drinks."

"Well, I'll drink to that," Tyrion says, raising his glass. "To Jaime, for getting us all drunk."

"Cheers," Cersei says, cracking a smile, and they all drink.

"I do think," Jaime says, "I must be the only man in the world who ever disappointed his father by going into medicine."

"Surely not the only one," Tyrion says. "There must be some other men out there whose fathers had other hopes for them."

"I could've done anything I wanted," Cersei muses. "He wouldn't have cared as long as it was respectable. But you - " She points at Jaime with one manicured finger. "God forbid you should go anywhere his footsteps don't lead you."

"Mm," Jaime agrees, and finishes his beer.

"That's our father for you, though, isn't it?" Tyrion says. "It's a highly respected career - and a well paying one. But it's not part of his empire, and that's all that matters."

"Maybe he'll go into pharmaceuticals next," Jaime replies. "Or - I don't know - insurance, perhaps."

Tyrion laughs at that, shaking his head. "That would be giving you ground."

"He'd give Jaime all the ground he has if it was on his terms," Cersei says, swirling her drink in her glass. "But you can't take up the family business if you're a doctor, I suppose."

"Not a doctor of medicine, anyways," Jaime agrees, and gets to his feet. "I'm getting another drink."

"Eight minutes," Tyrion murmurs, smirking a little. "That would be, what - seven pints in an hour if he keeps that up?"

"You're the drunkard," Cersei says, "not Jaime."

"Oh, yes," Tyrion agrees. "That's why I'm counting."

"Don’t tell me you’re betting,” Jaime says as he sits back down.

Tyrion scoffs. “Who would I make that bet with? Her?”

“Father, maybe,” Jaime replies, “if he were a betting man.”

“If Father was a betting man,” Cersei says, “he’d put his money on you coming to your senses.”

“Isn’t he already?” Tyrion asks. “Certainly he’s gambling the future of the company on it at the moment.”

“There’s a taste of irony,” Cersei says with a smirk, and takes a sip of her drink. “Of all the things to risk on a gamble, for it to be his legacy.”

Jaime raises his glass. “A toast,” he says, “to the death of Father’s legacy.”

Tyrion barks a laugh and knocks their glasses together. “Cheers,” he says, and gulps down the last of his drink.

Cersei doesn’t toast; she stares into her glass, brow creased and eyes narrowed in thought. “Not that you’re the only one who can carry the company on,” she murmurs. “And the family - he’s see that himself if he wasn’t so nearsighted in his pride.” She tips back her glass and finishes her drink as well, setting the glass down delicately.

“Next round’s on me,” Tyrion says, and waves over the waitress. “Another of your darkest for my brother and myself, if you would,” he says, pulling out his card. He glances at Cersei and adds, with a wry smile, “And perhaps a lemon drop for my dear sister.” Cersei sneers at him, sticking her tongue out across the table, which only makes him grin more broadly. “Leave it open,” he adds as the waitress takes his card. “I’m sure all of us will be buying more drinks before the night is out.”

For a moment it’s quiet; Jaime sips his drink, still only half empty, and Cersei frowns hard at her empty glass. “Tell me,” she says after a moment, and lifts her head. “Which of you has any desire to father children?”

Tyrion gestures at himself, raising an eyebrow. Jaime shrugs and shakes his head.

“As I thought,” she says, and closes her eyes, smiling thinly. “So it’s just me that plans to have children, to pass on his blood - his name - but no, it’s only Jaime who’s fit to carry his legacy.” She casts him a look and shakes her head. “Just because you have a cock.”

He grimaces. “That’s…one way to put it, I suppose.”

“If I’d been born a boy,” she continues darkly, “there’d be no question of who would inherit the family business.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jaime says. “Father might split it between us. You’re only older on a technicality, after all.”

She kicks him under the table. “You don’t have the ambition,” she replies. “Not for this.”

“Point taken,” he agrees, lifting his glass a little before he drains it.

“Well, you’ve still got some chance,” Tyrion says as the waitress comes around with their new drinks.

“Father’s not a gambling man - ah, thank you, darling - when the future of the company looms closer, he certainly won’t stake it on the hope that a Lannister might ever change his mind.” Jaime snorts at that, reaching for his drink, and Tyrion adds, “Sooner or later, he’s bound to realize his second choice is his only option.”

“Father never settles,” Cersei replies, running her finger around the sugared rim of her shot glass. “He won’t ever willingly give the business to his second choice. But that doesn’t mean I can’t take it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jaime says. “Lord knows I don’t want it.”

She smirks, raising her glass, and knocks back the vodka; the way she bares her teeth before she sinks them into the lemon wedge on her napkin is positively predatory.


	2. Chapter 2

_(six months earlier.)_

 

“Cersei,” Jaime says, “are you happy?”

She looks up from her nails, blinking at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Working for Father,” he clarifies. “Does it make you happy?”

He’s lying on his back with his feet propped up on the arm of the couch, one arm draped across his chest and the other hanging off on the floor, while Cersei sits at the coffee table, painting her nails. The townhouse is all but theirs on the weekends, when Father is out of town at the estate, and both of them use the opportunity, more than anything, to enjoy the luxury of laziness they’re rarely afforded while he’s here.

“Does it make me _happy,”_ Cersei repeats in a flat voice, still staring at him. “That’s a stupid question.”

He frowns at her, affronted. “Well,” he starts to say.

“Of course it does,” she continues before he can get farther. “Why shouldn’t it? I’m twenty-two and already one of the most powerful women in the city, on the executive board of the largest corporation in New York, finishing my bachelor’s degree debt-free this summer and making more money than eighty percent of the country’s population. In three years, perhaps less if I work hard enough, I’ll be CEO at Lionsgate and board director at Lanniscorp, answering only to Father. What’s not to be happy about?”

“Nothing,” he says, turning his head to look up at the ceiling.

“Why do you ask?” she adds; he can hear the way she’s narrowing her eyes. “Did Father put you up to this?”

“What?” he asks. “No, I was just wondering.”

“Why?” she presses, leaning on the coffee table. “Why the sudden concern for my happiness?”

He looks back at her, spreading his hands helplessly, “You’re my _sister,_ ” he says. “Of course I’m concerned that you’re _happy._ ”

She frowns at him, apparently confused by this.

“Forget it,” he sighs, and goes back to staring at the ceiling. “It was a stupid question anyways.”

“Why are you acting weird?” she asks. “Eleven on a Saturday is a bit early for you to be getting philosophical on me.”

He laughs hollowly, shaking his head. “Because I’ve got a paper to finish and don’t want to think about it?”

“Idiot,” she says, without much bite. “That economics report? For god’s sake. If it’s making you so gloomy, I’ll write the damn thing for you.”

“And Father will find out and skin us both alive,” he replies. “Besides, I expect the professor has seen enough of my reports to recognize one I _didn’t_ write.”

“I’ll be sure to make mistakes, then,” she says lightly, and he snorts. For a moment she’s quiet, and then says, slowly, “Are _you_ happy?”

“I’m fine,” he says, waving a hand.

“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” she says sternly.

He sighs, studying the pattern of the ceiling tiles. “No,” he says finally, very quietly. “Not really.”

He can’t bring himself to look at her. “Why not?” she asks, her voice softening.

“I don’t know,” he says, closing his eyes. “It doesn’t matter anyways, does it? Father would disown me if I left the company.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” she says. “He’d be angry, but he wouldn’t _disown_ you. He likes you too much. And anyways, he hasn’t disowned Tyrion.”

“He likes that I do what I’m told,” he corrects her. “If I don’t, it’s always - “

“Lannisters don’t act like fools,” she says with him, a sneer on her face that mimics Father’s before she smirks. “So don’t do something _foolish_ , Jaime.”

He laughs at that. “What would I do, anyways. I’m not clever like you are. Father’s favor is probably the best opportunity I have.”

She considers that for a moment, her lips pursed. “No,” she agrees, “you’re not especially clever. But you are proud, and stubborn as any Lannister’s ever been. Put your mind to something and you’re sure to see it done one way or another - foolish or not.”

“I suppose I do have tenacity as a virtue,” he sighs. “A surfeit of tenacity, and a tremendous lack of common sense.”

“Fortunately, there are plenty of careers which don’t require common sense,” she says. “And you’ll be miles better at something you _enjoy_ than you are with business and management anyways. The question is only _what_ it would be.”

He shrugs. “I was always better at athletics than at my studies,” he says. “but even the ones I’m good at would certainly count as _foolish_ to make a career of. Besides, I rather like my face as it is, I’d rather not see it mangled.”

She laughs, lacing her fingers carefully to avoid smudging her nails. “And head trauma won’t make you any brighter,” she adds.

He frowns, looking up at the ceiling and running his fingers through his hair. “I’m not particularly good at much else. I suppose I’ve got a certain charm, but that’s not good for anything but acting and politics. I’m not much for theater, and I’d sooner hang myself than go into government.” She laughs again. “I’m serious,” he adds. “Have you _met_ Robert Baratheon? There’s a man with the wrong ambitions.”

“Robert Baratheon doesn’t have the spine for his job,” she says. “You’ve at least got that.”

“And I will break it myself before having it crushed by politics,” he says. “No one ever did any good for anyone sitting in office.”

She snorts. “If it’s _good_ you want to do, you ought to go into public service.”

“Father _would_ hate that, wouldn’t he?” Jaime says, and sighs. “But I’ll do more good _anywhere_ that isn’t Lanniscorp.”

“Ideals aren’t a basis for a career,” she replies. “They’ll be your downfall as surely as Robert Baratheon’s.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “Perhaps it’s principle that makes me an idiot, after all.”

“Incaution and impulsiveness make you an idiot,” she says. “Principle just makes you vulnerable.”

“Still,” he says, and sighs, closing his eyes. “Father would certainly have me choke it out, wouldn’t he?”

“We’re not talking about what Father wants,” she reminds him. “For once in your life, you’re thinking _too_ much like a Lannister.”

He laughs without much conviction. “Alright. So if I do adhere to principle - if I want to do something that does even half an ounce of good for someone other than myself - what _is_ there?”

“Politics is useless and would kill your principle as surely as Father will,” she says. “Education is noble, but not respectable, and you don’t have the temperament for it. Administration, city and state work, those all need patience you don’t have.” She taps her nails on the table, thinking. “Sciences, medicine? There’s good to be done there.”

“I’d never make it in either,” he says. “You might do it, if you wanted, but not me.”

“I don’t have the character,” she says dryly. “I only get along with people when they’re doing something for me.”

That’s certainly true, he thinks, and almost smiles. “No,” he agrees, “but you’re sharp enough, is what I meant. God knows I’d never get into medical school - and the same is true for sciences, I’d never make it into a degree program.”

“Not with that attitude,” she scoffs. “You’re nearly finished your business degree. Why not a second?”

“Because I scrape through my science classes by the skin of my teeth,” he says. “I’d need to - to memorize things, Cersei, I’m _terrible_ at that.”

“You’re not,” she says. “You know every major brand owned by Lanniscorp, and all the subsidiaries, and which products belong to which division.”

“Only because Father drilled it into my head,” he argues.

“So?” she says. “Drill it into your own head, then. What the hell _else_ is tenacity good for?”

He sits up, swinging his legs off the couch to look at her. She’s gone back to painting her nails, a deep iridescent green that flashes as bright as her eyes in the light. “You’re serious about this,” he says, incredulous. “You’re actually taking this seriously.”

“You’re unhappy,” she says without looking up. “And I take your happiness as seriously as you take mine. We share more than blood, Jaime.”

He sighs. “I’d need to pass tests,” he says. “How would I ever pass the tests to get into medical school?”

“There’s a preparation program,” she says. “Apply for it now. There’s a waiting list, I’m sure, but perhaps you could start in the fall if you hurry.” She spreads her fingers to examine her nails. “You’ll want to start as soon as you can, since I’m sure there are classes you’ll need to retake. Average marks don’t get you into graduate programs.”

He shakes his head slowly, frowning. “I suppose I could consider it,” he says slowly.

“Talk to your advisors,” she says. “And for God’s sake, go to the resource center for help with your papers. I’ll write an econ report for you, but I’m not helping you with medical research write-ups.”


End file.
